The Bright Red Of A Rosebud

Calling…calling who…Rose…Rose…Rose…Does the name belong to her, the one I still finger the touch of her lips upon mineDoes the lonely picture in my pocket portray her, the one I keep resting in my walletThe one my lips touch everyday in a small instantRose…her name drives the very strength out of meLeaving me pale stricken, glossy eyedIn a moment filled eclipse of irrelevant staticThe static mimicking the sound of a thousand buzzing fliesSlowly encompassing me in deliberate darknessRose…what is the reason I know of youRose…what is the reason to why I...